Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(87)

“I don’t know if I have the stuff,” Tom said. “I want to do well, but…”

“It’s not a good idea to go that route if you don’t feel it. It’s got power. The power of conviction. It’s full of adrenaline. The rush. It’s hard enough when you do feel it.”

“How do you know?”

Paul shrugged. “I can’t answer that, son. I wasn’t sure till I was there. For us, me and Matt, it was Iraq the first time, and it was nothing compared to this. But once I got there, I knew I was supposed to be there. That’s when we met Jack Sheridan, Preacher and Mike.”

“But you got out.”

“The reserves was enough for me, but that ended in Fallujah—where I took a bullet and donated a spleen. Okay by me—I wanted to serve, but I didn’t want that career. I have the career I want. I love building houses. The most important thing for you to remember is you don’t have to make this decision now. You have years before you have to do that.”

“You think Vanni’s going to be all right?” he asked.

“Not right away. She’s going to have to grieve him. Eventually, though, she’s going to get on with her life because she has that gift, that love of life. I’ve never known a woman as alive as Vanni. And she’ll have a son to raise. She’ll be okay. Just a matter of time.”

“I hear her at night. Crying.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “So do I.”

They took the horses on a path along the narrow end of the river that cut through the general’s property and Paul pulled back on the reins. “Tommy,” he whispered. “Over there.”

At the water’s edge was the most magnificent buck Paul had ever seen. Drinking from the river, he had twelve points, six by six, a thick white throat, a long, handsome snout and black nose. God, he was beautiful. “There’s an old guy. He’s dodged the hunters for a few years.”

“Look at him,” Tom said. “I’d never be able to shoot him.”

“His meat might be a little tough anyway,” Paul said. “We’re going to have to start bringing a camera with us.”

They sat in silence and admired the stag. One of the horses whinnied and the deer’s head came up. He sniffed the air and then turned and ran into the trees.

“You think it hurt him?” Tom asked. And again Paul knew it was Matt of whom they spoke.

Paul reached across the distance that separated them and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Son, he didn’t feel a thing. He might be wandering around heaven right now, wondering what the hell hit him. No pain. And I’m not just speculating—your dad got in touch with his platoon commander.”

As they headed back to the house, Tom said, “Tell me about Jack. About these guys…”

“Jack,” Paul said. “When Matt and I met him, he was already a marksman, a sniper, a decorated Marine, and we were kids. I served under him again when my reserve unit was called up—that’s the group that still hangs tight. By the time Jack retired he held more medals than I could count. He saved a lot of lives—he served in five combat zones. He went in as a boy, but damn, he must have had some instinct about it because he was a huge success, a bona fide war hero. Then when he got out, he came to Virgin River and rebuilt that cabin into the bar and grill, married Mel when she got here and seemed like this pretty regular small-town guy.

“But he’s no ordinary small-town guy—he’s still a fighting Marine. There was an incident—a guy came out of the woods in the middle of the night, looking for drugs at Doc’s. Mel was staying there. He broke in, put a knife to Mel’s throat, threatened to kill her for the drugs. Doc heard something and called Jack, who was asleep at the bar across the street. He grabbed his handgun, a nine millimeter, and ran. He managed to get on a pair of jeans and that’s all. Half-dressed, barefoot, a couple of big tattoos on those huge arms of his, and I don’t know if you’ve ever seen that killer look he can get on his face—he must have looked like a wild man. He kicked in the door at Doc’s and was face-to-face with this lunatic holding his woman, big serrated knife to her throat, and he had a little, bitty target.” He held up his thumb and forefinger. “Right next to Mel’s face. Now, you can see how he is with Mel—he worships her. No way he’d ever risk her life. But it took him about a second to make up his mind, to act. He took the guy out. Shot him in the head, killed him.”

“No way.”

“He did. He’s the kind of guy who never hesitates. But he knows what he’s doing—he knows what he can and can’t do. Knows what he has to do. And then he does it—clearheaded.”

“What a stud,” Tom said.

Paul laughed.

“What about Mike? Valenzuela?”

“Mike? After our first hitch, he went to LAPD and stayed in the reserves, like I did. We were activated at the same time. We had some hard fighting in Iraq, but he got through that with a couple of medals. He held off insurgents at Fallujah, saving the whole squad. Joe and me were bleeding all over the place, and so were some others, but Mike kept them back till Jack and the rest of the platoon could effect a rescue. But then about a year ago back in L.A., as a police sergeant in a gang unit, he got taken out by a fourteen-year-old gangbanger in a playground. He took three bullets and it almost killed him. LAPD retired him and he came up here to recuperate—Mel helped him with his physical therapy. Now he’s the town cop—bet he never saw that coming. And you already know about Brie, right?”